A Coven of Vampires

by Brian Lumley

  As he went, Karpethes gesticulated, probably tried to say something to me by way of an apology, choked again and reeled as he allowed the waiter to help him from the room.

  “I’m…sorry,” I said, not knowing what else to say.

  “He has attacks.” She was cool. “Do not concern yourself. I am used to it.”

  We sat in silence for a moment. Finally I began: “You were going to tell me—”

  “Ah, yes! I had forgotten. It is a symbiosis.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. I need the good life he can give me, and he needs…my youth. We supply each other’s needs.” And so, in a way, the old woman with the idiot boy hadn’t been wrong after all. A sort of bargain had indeed been struck. Between Karpethes and his wife. As that thought crossed my mind I felt the short hairs at the back of my neck stiffen for a moment. Goose-flesh crawled on my arms. After all, “Nichos” was pretty close to “Necros”, and now this youth thing again. Coincidence, of course. And after all, aren’t all relationships bargains of sorts? Bargains struck for better or for worse.

  “But for how long?” I asked. “I mean, how long will it work for you?”

  She shrugged. “I have been provided for. And he will have me all the days of his life.”

  I coughed, cleared my throat, gave a strained, self-conscious laugh. “And here’s me, the non-pryer!”

  “No, not at all, I wanted you to know.”

  “Well,” I shrugged, “—but it’s been a pretty deep first conversation.”

  “First? Did you believe that buying me a drink would entitle you to more than one conversation?”

  I almost winced. “Actually, I—”

  But then she smiled and my world lit up. “You did not need to buy the drinks,” she said. “There would have been some other way.”

  I looked at her inquiringly. “Some other way to—?”

  “To find out if we were English or not.”

  “Oh!”

  “Here comes Nichos now,” she smiled across the room. “And we must be leaving. He’s not well. Tell me, will you be on the beach tomorrow?”

  “Oh—yes!” I answered after a moment’s hesitation. “I like to swim.”

  “So do I. Perhaps we can swim out to the raft…?”

  “I’d like that very much.”

  Her husband arrived back at the table under his own steam. He looked a little stronger now, not quite so shrivelled somehow. He did not sit but gripped the back of his chair with parchment fingers, knuckles white where the skin stretched over old bones. “Mr Collins,” he rustled, “—Adrienne, I’m sorry….”

  “There’s really no need,” I said, rising.

  “We really must be going.” She also stood. “No, you stay here, er, Peter? It’s kind of you, but we can manage. Perhaps we’ll see you on the beach.” And she helped him to the door of the bar and through it without once looking back.

  3.

  They weren’t staying at my hotel, had simply dropped in for a drink. That was understandable (though I would have preferred to think that she had been looking for me) for my hotel was middling tourist-class while theirs was something else. They were up on the hill, high on the crest of a Ligurian spur where a smaller, much more exclusive place nestled in Mediterranean pines. A place whose lights spelled money when they shone up there at night, whose music came floating down from a tiny open-air disco like the laughter of high-living elementals of the air. If I was poetic it was because of her. I mean, that beautiful girl and that weary, wrinkled dried-up walnut of an old man. If anything, I was sorry for him. And yet in another way I wasn’t.

  And let’s make no pretence about it—if I haven’t said it already, let me say it right now—I wanted her. Moreover, there had been that about our conversation, her beach invitation, which told me that she was available.

  The thought of it kept me awake half the night….

  • • •

  I was on the beach at 9.00 a.m.—they didn’t show until 11.00. When they did, and when she came out of her tiny changing cubicle—

  There wasn’t a male head on the beach that didn’t turn at least twice. Who could blame them? That girl, in that costume, would have turned the head of a sphinx. But—there was something, some little nagging thing, different about her. A maturity beyond her years? She held herself like a model, a princess. But who was it for? Karpethes or me?

  As for the old man: he was in a crumpled lightweight summer suit and sunshade hat as usual, but he seemed a bit more perky this morning. Unlike myself he’d doubtless had a good night’s sleep. While his wife had been changing he had made his way unsteadily across the pebbly beach to my table and sun umbrella, taking the seat directly opposite me; and before his wife could appear he had opened with: “Good morning, Mr Collins.”

  “Good morning,” I answered. “Please call me Peter.”

  “Peter, then,” he nodded. He seemed out of breath, either from his stumbling walk over the beach or a certain urgency which I could detect in his movements, his hurried, almost rude “let’s get down to it” manner.

  “Peter, you said you would be here for one more day?”

  “That’s right,” I answered, for the first time studying him closely where he sat like some strange garden gnome half in the shade of the beach umbrella. “This is my last day.”

  He was a bundle of dry wood, a desiccated prune, a small, umber scarecrow. And his voice, too, was of straw, or autumn leaves blown across a shady path. Only his eyes were alive. “And you said you have no family, few friends, no one to miss you back in England?”

  Warning bells rang in my head. Maybe it wasn’t so much urgency in him—which usually implies a goal or ambition still to be realized—but eagerness in that the goal was in sight. “That’s correct. I am, was, a student doctor. When I get home I shall seek a position. Other than that there’s nothing, no one, no ties.”

  He leaned forward, bird eyes very bright, claw hand reaching across the table, trembling, and—

  Her shadow suddenly fell across us as she stood there in that costume. Karpethes jerked back in his chair. His face was working, strange emotions twisting the folds and wrinkles of his flesh into stranger contours. I could feel my heart thumping against my ribs…why, I couldn’t say. I calmed myself, looked up at her and smiled.

  She stood with her back to the sun, which made a dark silhouette of her head and face. But in that blot of darkness her oval eyes were green jewels. “Shall we swim, Peter?”

  She turned and ran down the beach, and of course I ran after her. She had a head start and beat me to the water, beat me to the raft, too. It wasn’t until I hauled myself up beside her that I thought of Karpethes: how I hadn’t even excused myself before plunging after her. But at least the water had cleared my head, bringing me completely awake and aware.

  Aware of her incredible body where it stretched, almost touching mine, on the fibre deck of the gently bobbing raft.

  I mentioned her husband’s line of inquiry, gasping a little for breath as I recovered from the frantic exercise of our race. She, on the other hand, already seemed completely recovered. She carefully arranged her hair about her shoulders like a fan, to dry in the sunlight, before answer ing.

  “Nichos is not really my husband,” she finally said, not looking at me. “I am his companion, that’s all. I could have told you last night, but…there was the chance that you really were curious only about our nationality. As for any ‘veiled threats’ he might have issued: that is not unusual. He might not have the vitality of younger men, but jealousy is ageless.”

  “No,” I answered, “he didn’t threaten—not that I noticed. But jealousy? Knowing I have only one more day to spend here, what has he to fear from me?”

  Her shoulders twitched a little, a shrug. She turned her face to me, her lips inches away. Her eyelashes were like silken shutters over green pools, hiding whatever swam in the deeps. “I am young, Peter, and so are you. And you are very attractive, very…eager? Holiday romances a
re not uncommon.”

  My blood was on fire. “I have very little money,” I said. “We are staying at different hotels. He already suspects me. It is impossible.”

  “What is?” she innocently asked, leaving me at a complete loss.

  But then she laughed, tossed back her hair, already dry, dangled her hands and arms in the water. “Where there’s a will….” she said.

  “You know that I want you—” The words spilled out before I could control or change them.

  “Oh, yes. And I want you.” She said it so simply, and yet suddenly I felt seared. A moth brushing the magnet candle’s flame.

  I lifted my head, looked towards the beach. Across seventy-five yards of sparkling water the beach umbrellas looked very large and close. Karpethes sat in the shade just as I had last seen him, his face hidden in shadow. But I knew that he watched.

  “You can do nothing here,” she said, her voice languid—but I noticed now that she, too, seemed short of breath.

  “This,” I told her with a groan, “is going to kill me!”

  She laughed, laughter that sparkled more than the sun on the sea. “I’m sorry,” she said more soberly. “It’s unfair of me to laugh. But—your case is not hopeless.”

  “Oh?”

  “Tomorrow morning, early, Nichos has an appointment with a specialist in Geneva. I am to drive him into the city tonight. We’ll stay at a hotel overnight.”

  I groaned my misery. “Then my case is quite hopeless. I fly tomorrow.”

  “But if I sprained my wrist,” she said, “and so could not drive…and if he went into Geneva by taxi while I stayed behind with a headache—because of the pain from my wrist—” Like a flash she was on her feet, the raft tilting, her body diving, striking the water into a spray of diamonds.

  Seconds for it all to sink in—and then I was following her, labouring through the water in her churning wake. And as she splashed from the sea, seeing her stumble, go to her hands and knees in Ligurian shingle—and the pained look on her face, the way she held her wrist as she came to her feet. As easy as that!

  Karpethes, struggling to rise from his seat, stared at her with his mouth agape. Her face screwed up now as I followed her up the beach. And Adrienne holding her “sprained” wrist and shaking it, her mouth forming an elongated “O”. The sinuous motion of her body and limbs, mobile marble with dew of ocean clinging saltily….

  If the tiny man had said to me: “I am Necros. I want ten years of your life for one night with her,” at that moment I might have sealed the bargain. Gladly. But legends are legends and he wasn’t Necros, and he didn’t, and I didn’t. After all, there was no need….

  4.

  I suppose my greatest fear was that she might be “having me on”, amusing herself at my expense. She was, of course, “safe” with me—in so far as I would be gone tomorrow and the “romance” forgotten, for her, anyway—and I could also see how she was starved for young companionship, a fact she had brought right out in the open from the word go.

  But why me? Why should I be so lucky?

  Attractive? Was I? I had never thought so. Perhaps it was because I was so safe: here today and gone tomorrow, with little or no chance of complications. Yes, that must be it. If she wasn’t simply making a fool of me. She might be just a tease—

  But she wasn’t.

  At 8.30 that evening I was in the bar of my hotel—had been there for an hour, careful not to drink too much, unable to eat—when the waiter came to me and said there was a call for me on the reception telephone. I hurried out to reception where the clerk discreetly excused himself and left me alone.

  “Peter?” Her voice was a deep well of promise. “He’s gone. I’ve booked us a table, to dine at 9.00. Is that all right for you?”

  “A table? Where?” my own voice, breathless.

  “Why, up here, of course! Oh, don’t worry, it’s perfectly safe. And anyway, Nichos knows.”

  “Knows?” I was taken aback, a little panicked. “What does he know?”

  “That we’re dining together. In fact he suggested it. He didn’t want me to eat alone—and since this is your last night….”

  “I’ll get a taxi right away,” I told her.

  “Good. I look forward to…seeing you. I shall be in the bar.”

  I replaced the telephone in its cradle, wondering if she always took an aperitif before the main course….

  • • •

  I had smartened myself up. That is to say, I was immaculate. Black bowtie, white evening jacket (courtesy of C & A), black trousers and a lightly frilled white shirt, the only one I had ever owned. But I might have known that my appearance would never match up to hers. It seemed that everything she did was just perfectly right. I could only hope that that meant literally everything.

  But in her black lace evening gown with its plunging neckline, short wide sleeves and delicate silver embroidery, she was stunning. Sitting with her in the bar, sipping our drinks—for me a large whisky and for her a tall Cinzano—I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Twice I reached out for her hand and twice she drew back from me.

  “Discreet they may well be,” she said, letting her oval green eyes flicker towards the bar, where guests stood and chatted, and back to me, “but there’s really no need to give them occasion to gossip.”

  “I’m sorry. Adrienne,” I told her, my voice husky and close to trembling, “but—”

  “How is it,” she demurely cut me off, “that a good-looking man like you is—how do you say it?—‘going short?’ ”

  I sat back, chuckled. “That’s a rather unladylike expres sion,” I told her.

  “Oh? And what I’ve planned for tonight is ladylike?”

  My voice went huskier still. “Just what is your plan?”

  “While we eat,” she answered, her voice low, “I shall tell you.” At which point a waiter loomed, napkin over his arm, inviting us to accompany him to the dining room.

  • • •

  Adrienne’s portions were tiny, mine huge. She sipped a slender, light white wine, I gulped blocky rich red from a glass the waiter couldn’t seem to leave alone. Mercifully I was hungry—I hadn’t eaten all day—else that meal must surely have bloated me out. And all of it ordered in advance, the very best in quality cuisine.

  “This,” she eventually said, handing me her key, “fits the door of our suite.” We were sitting back, enjoying liqueurs and cigarettes. “The rooms are on the ground floor. Tonight you enter through the door, tomorrow morning you leave via the window. A slow walk down to the seafront will refresh you. How is that for a plan?”

  “Unbelievable!”

  “You don’t believe it?”

  “Not my good fortune, no.”

  “Shall we say that we both have our needs?”

  “I think,” I said, “that I may be falling in love with you. What if I don’t wish to leave in the morning?”

  She shrugged, smiled, said: “Who knows what tomorrow may bring?”

  How could I ever have thought of her simply as another girl? Or even an ordinary young woman? Girl she certainly was, woman, too, but so…knowing! Beautiful as a princess and knowing as a whore.

  If Mario’s old myths and legends were reality, and if Nichos Karpethes were really Necros, then he’d surely picked the right companion. No man born could ever have resisted Adrienne, of that I was quite certain. These thoughts were in my mind—but dimly, at the back of my mind—as I left her smoking in the dining-room and followed her directions to the suite of rooms at the rear of the hotel. In the front of my mind were other thoughts, much more vivid and completely erotic.

  I found the suite, entered, left the door slightly ajar behind me.

  The thing about an Italian room is its size. An entire suite of rooms is vast. As it happened, I was only interested in one room, and Adrienne had obligingly left the door to that one open.

  I was sweating. And yet…I shivered.

  Adrienne had said fifteen minutes, time enough for her to smoke ano
ther cigarette and finish her drink. Then she would come to me. By now the entire staff of the hotel probably knew I was in here, but this was Italy.

  5.

  I shivered again. Excitement? Probably.

  I threw off my clothes, found my way to the bathroom, took the quickest shower of my life. Drying myself off, I padded back to the bedroom.

  Between the main bedroom and the bathroom a smaller door stood ajar. I froze as I reached it, my senses suddenly alert, my ears seeming to stretch themselves into vast receivers to pick up any slightest sound. For there had been a sound. I was sure of it, from that room….

  A scratching? A rustle? A whisper? I couldn’t say. But a sound, anyway.

  Adrienne would be coming soon. Standing outside that door I slowly recommenced towelling myself dry. My naked feet were still firmly rooted, but my hands automatically worked with the towel. It was nerves, only nerves. There had been no sound, or at most only the night breeze off the sea, whispering in through an open window.

  I stopped towelling, took another step towards the main bedroom, heard the sound again. A small, choking rasp. A tiny gasping for air.

  Karpethes? What the hell was going on?

  I shivered violently, my suddenly chill flesh shuddering in an uncontrollable spasm. But…I forced myself to action, returned to the main bedroom, quickly dressed (with the exception of my tie and jacket) and crept back to the small room.

  Adrienne must be on her way to me even now. She mustn’t find me poking my nose into things, like a suspicious kid. I must kill off this silly feeling that had my skin crawling. Not that an attack of nerves was unnatural in the circumstances, on the contrary, but I wasn’t about to let it spoil the night. I pushed open the door of the room, entered into darkness, found the light switch. Then—

  I held my breath, flipped the switch.

  The room was only half as big as the others. It contained a small single bed, a bedside table, a wardrobe. Nothing more, or at least nothing immediately apparent to my wildly darting eyes. My heart, which was racing, slowed and began to settle towards a steadier beat. The window was open, external shutters closed—but small night sounds were finding their way in through the louvers. The distant sounds of traffic, the toot of horns—holiday sounds from below.